Flock of Wolves Page 3

  "Sexual?"

  Sicko.

  "No, but violent." Starting a damn religion. "We can discuss in more detail when you get here."

  He grunted.

  "You'll be able to help her." It wasn't a question. He would cure Sydney Rye or he would pay dearly. My fist tightened around the phone. Someone had to pay.

  My next call was to Martha Emerson, a director at the CIA. We had a professional relationship. If she was a man, it would be an even playing field, but being seen as her sex alone kept her down, I didn't feel threatened by her. If anything, I liked Martha. I respected her.

  She was smart, hardworking and loyal—I tried to hire her on more than one occasion, and she'd always turned me down. A patriot. But eventually, I knew I'd wear her down. In the meantime, she played nice, knowing that I held sway with the men she answered to.

  "Robert." Her voice was clipped.

  "Martha, how are you?"

  I heard papers shuffling. "Why are you calling?"

  "Checking in." I picked up a pen off the desk and twirled it over my fingers. "I have some information for you." Pretend like you are giving a gift when really what you seek is an offering. "Sydney Rye is alive."

  The paper shuffling stopped. "She is?" Martha could not keep the eager tone out of her voice.

  "Yes."

  Martha cleared her throat. She had to play this cool. "We'd like to speak to her." We.

  "What do you have on the prophet?" I needed a name. An identity. Something to make her real.

  "We're working on it. Come in, bring Sydney, and we can discuss."

  Nice try. "Give me what you have and then we can discuss Sydney…"

  Martha sighed. She wouldn't give me everything, but maybe it would be enough. "We're pretty sure she is Syrian, trained in London. In her mid-thirties."

  "Do you have a name?"

  The papers shuffled again. "Bring Sydney in, and I'll give you the name."

  "Martha, Martha, Martha. It's as if we've spent no time together."

  "It's as if you're aiding and abetting a fugitive."

  "Is she now?" I asked. "Last time I checked, Sydney Rye was the co-owner of Dog Fight Investigations, a U.S contractor…that can't look good. On paper, I mean." My voice dropped. "To have a wanted fugitive on the payroll. A radical."

  "Where are you? I'll send transportation."

  I laughed. "I don't need a taxi. Just a name."

  "Come here and let's talk. Then I'll give you the name." She didn't have a name.

  I had choices: let Martha talk to Sydney and hope that my connections could keep her free—and if not my connections, then threats of humiliation for the bureau. Or, keep Sydney hidden and take care of her myself. I needed to get Sydney medical care. I could handle Martha.

  "I'm in Turkey, at Huzussu Medical Center—"

  Martha cut me off. "Get out of there." Her voice was low and urgent. "I have very good intel an attack is going to happen there."

  Shit. The CIA pulling strings, trying to control the Turkish government—the more unrest in Turkey, the more power the government could take, the more they could help the CIA. A terrorist attack at a private hospital would piss people off.

  I hung up and yanked open the door of the office. The president of the hospital waited with his secretary, sitting on the edge of her desk, smiling down at her.

  "Something bad is about to happen. I want Mulberry moved now."

  He leapt into action, picking up the phone and beginning to bark orders. I checked my watch. How long did I have?

  Chapter Three

  I Woke Within a Dream

  Mulberry

  The door slammed, and my mother howled—a gut-wrenching, spine-tingling, hair-raising sound, like a banshee, a ghost…a woman scorned.

  My father had walked out, leaving her for a younger woman.

  "A whore!" My mother explained to her mother hours later as I sat in my grandparents’ living room, the plastic covering the couch crinkling under me.

  I stared at the familiar room, brown and tan carpeting that twisted over my toes when I was a child. Now, over a decade later, it had flattened under time and boots. My grandmother was always on my Papa's case about wearing his shoes in her house.

  He sat in his recliner next to me. The Eagles played on the TV—men thrashing their bodies into each other, doing what men did best, battling in a field for glory.

  Men did not make good domesticated creatures.

  Papa, with his big belly, slumped shoulders, and sparse white hair clinging to his head, all that was left of his dark curly mane, sat slumped in the chair.

  But my father was out there. He wasn't stuck at home. Like me. Like Papa. He was out saving lives and fucking whores.

  My eyes wandered off the TV and up to the painting of Jesus that hung over the mantel. Cupped between his hands, the son of the Lord held his heart, circled in a crown of thorns, while his mournful eyes stared down into the fireplace. Which was filled with faux fall foliage and a carved pumpkin whose gap-toothed smile curled in with rot.

  My mother’s voice rose again. "How could he?"

  My grandmother's soft response followed the exclamation. The sound of my mother crying drifted into the room, and Papa turned up the game.

  "Second and goal late in the fourth quarter. If we score, we win.”

  I stared at Jesus's heart.

  Dangerous to have it so exposed.

  But, when you're the son of God, you probably don't worry about broken hearts.

  Was my mother's heart broken? From where I'd sat, witnessing my parents’ marriage, I'd think she'd be happy he'd finally left. They fought all the time. She hated him. And he didn't care about her—which is probably why she hated him.

  He'd told me that he just didn't love her anymore. "But don't worry, son; I'll always love you."

  I found that hard to believe. He must have said the same to her. That he'd always love her. It was in the marriage vows, wasn't it?

  The Giants called a time out and the game broke for a commercial. My grandfather finished off his beer and glanced toward the kitchen, his mouth turning down into a frown. His gaze tracked to me. "Go grab me a brewski, will ya?"

  Before I could answer, he shook his head and gave me a tight-lipped smile. "Never mind. I won't do that to you, Ralphie." He hauled himself out of the chair, his slippers, the same brown as the carpeting, slapping against his bare feet as he moved toward the kitchen. "In fact—" He looked over his shoulder at me. "It's high time you had a drink, boy."

  He cleared his throat as he entered the kitchen. My eyes returned to the Jesus portrait. Mary had loved her son. She was a good mom. My mom was a good mom. Would my father's whore be a good mother to any children they had?

  Would I be a good brother?

  Papa returned with the beer and cracked the can open, handing it to me. The familiar scent reached my nose. "Your mother will be all right," Papa promised as he eased back into his recliner. "She's tough."

  I nodded, taking a deep breath.

  My father's words came back to me...right before he slammed the door. "She makes me happy, Mona!" She makes me happy. Was that how you got happy? A woman?

  I sipped the beer, the bubbles tingling my nose, the bitter taste welcome. This was not a child's drink. I was a man now.

  Papa returned his attention to the TV, after making sure I wasn't going to spit the beer everywhere. He let out a cheer as an Eagles runner plowed into the end zone.

  I settled deeper against the plastic and tried to concentrate on the game, but the more of the beer I drank, the more my attention kept going to that heart in Jesus's hands. Was it throbbing? Beeping?

  What was that sound?

  The beer was going to my head. It was like I was swimming in place, like the room was wavering...

  I finished the beer and put the empty can on the coffee table. The game ended, and Papa switched to the news, bringing me another beer. Darkness filled the windows, and Papa turned on the lamp next to his cha
ir, throwing a yellow glow over the space.

  My mother came out, her nose red and eyes swollen. "Let's go," she waved at me, sniffling.

  I stood up, a little unsteady. Papa gave me a hug, his big softness enveloping me. He whispered in my ear. "You're the man of the house now; I expect you'll fill the role well, son."

  "I will. I'll always love her." He squeezed me and then turned away. My grandmother fussed around my mother, hugging her then pushing us both out into the chilly night.

  We walked back to our house in silence. As my mother unlocked the door, she paused and turned to me. Her green eyes held mine. She was beautiful, and my heart ached looking at her. She was so sad. My mom gave me a small smile. "I'll be okay."

  "I know you will, Mom." I nodded. "You're very strong."

  Her chin wobbled.

  "I promise, Mom; I'll always be here for you." She burst into tears and pulled me close.

  "You’re a good man, son. I'm very proud of you."

  She was heavy in my arms, the weight of her against me holding me in this place, in this world. My heartbeat rang in my ears, sounding almost like a beep.

  Sydney

  The machines around Mulberry beeped, a high note above the thrumming of thunder in my brain. Each tone marked a heartbeat: one pump of that strong, fallible muscle.

  Despite the pallor of his skin, the dark shadows under his eyes, and the way he laid there, so still—deathly still—Mulberry was alive. Still breathing, beating, being…

  Curling my hand against his limp palm, lacing my fingers through his, I noted the clammy chill of his skin. Usually Mulberry was so warm…hot, even.

  He was alive and yet appeared dead. I pushed him away and yet he followed me. He loved me and yet refused to save himself for me.

  Everybody I love dies.

  Tears stung my eyes, and I tried to blink them away, but they pooled hot and wet in my lashes then slid down my cheeks.

  I'm so selfish.

  If I was a better person, I never would've kissed him, never would've allowed myself those brief moments with Mulberry, the ones that set me free, that allowed me some form of obliteration.

  My mind had been obliterated. The sizzling lightning in the corner of my gaze, the rolling thunder in the back of my mind, a patchwork of my memories, all pointed to a death of one kind. I wasn't sane anymore.

  Had I ever been? I squeezed Mulberry's hand. He knew me before I was Sydney Rye. We met when I was Joy Humbolt, a mixed-up young woman in New York City whose life was upended when a dog she was walking sniffed out a body in an alley. Was I crazy back then, too? Was this destiny? Or had I chosen it all? Was it all my will that brought us here? Mulberry in a coma, his left leg ended above his knee.

  The sheet showed the gentle outline of the stump. It looked almost like a party trick, a Halloween prank. When Mulberry did wake up—because he would wake up—he would find his life altered.

  But he would adapt. He was strong and brave, and that beeping said he was still alive.

  But his mind…

  Your mind could change and yet the substance of you stay the same.

  I held Mulberry's hand, searching for memories before I found myself running down that hillside into Surama…before I saw Mulberry fall.

  I remembered that I was climbing, ready for death—sick of the lightning and thunder, of the storm I had built around myself. Sick of the violence and the deaths that thrived like strong winds in a low-pressure system.

  I remembered fighting with a man who wanted me dead…my knife plunging home, the gurgled final breath of my victim. And then it all got real fuzzy. Real strange. The next memory is the battle in Surama, Mulberry lying in the street, war raging around us…Robert helping me get him to safety. The gap between those two sets of memories, Robert now tells me, was several months.

  As we'd left Surama in Robert's helicopter, I'd seen a woman standing on the hillside, covered in a burka and long robes, surrounded by giant mastiffs. A part of me knew she was the one who'd saved me—performed surgery and kept me alive.

  How she had held me captive and controlled me for so long, I didn't know. I felt a pulling at my mind, some kind of strange pressure—but it wasn't moving me. I was in control again.

  I squeezed Mulberry's hand.

  Fear had pushed me away from Mulberry—the fear of losing him. It didn't do any good; he teetered on the edge now. All my pushing had shoved him right into a battlefield—blown off his leg and left him in this hospital, the sheets tucked tightly around him, the machines beeping out the rhythm of his heart.

  Blue leaned against my leg, and I used my free hand to pet his head.

  "We have to go back," I said to Blue.

  He sighed and rested his chin on my knee. I ran my finger up and down the length of his snout. He closed his eyes in appreciation.

  "I have to kill her."

  Why, though? Revenge? She used me. Told the world my recovery from near-death was a miracle—that my health, agility, my very existence was proof of God and His will.

  I agreed that each of us decided our own value. Her message resonated inside me. I agreed with Her that women—any oppressed people—should rise up and fight against their oppressors.

  But the thunder in the back of my mind told me she was dangerous. Incredibly dangerous.

  Was there anything worse than a false prophet?

  A false martyr?

  My birth name, Joy Humbolt, sparked a vigilante network named Joyful Justice. One act of revenge and a story mistold changed the world.

  I was sick of the lies.

  This all had to stop.

  My heart beat faster than the beeping at Mulberry’s bedside. I couldn't keep living like this.

  I refused to return to the United States, have some doctor tell me about my hallucinations. I knew what was real.

  While under the spell of Datura, I was completely pliant. I'd watched the videos of myself: the way I nodded, the blank stare on my face. Robert Maxim, along with Dan and Mulberry, had kept me safe in a hospital room much fancier than this one. Robert Maxim held my hand, and I watched his lips move on the silent video. What did he say to me?

  What did she say to me?

  Faith is a weapon that I am willing to use.

  It's the only thing more powerful than death.

  You can wipe a civilization off the earth with a big enough bomb…or you can transform it into the civilization you want with the right faith. With a big enough lie.

  I shuddered at the memory. I needed to confront this self-proclaimed prophet and understand what happened to me.

  I needed to see Blue's puppies.

  They were mine. Who was she to keep them from me?

  I shook my head, trying to clear it of the harsh winds blowing against my ears. They were so loud the sound almost drowned out that steady beeping of Mulberry's heart.

  The way that violence and greed for justice had almost blocked out the love he offered me. I pushed him away to save others, to save him.

  Nothing I did ever worked. I needed to change. Needed a new approach.

  I bent over Mulberry, pressing my cheek against the back of his hand. Breathing in the scents around me…trying to find the smell that was him.

  But all that met me was the astringent sting of the hospital, the flowery perfume of clean sheets, and the iron-y tang of blood.

  I couldn't stop Mulberry from dying. I had no control.

  But I could go back to the woman who saved me. I would find her and those dogs and figure out what happened.

  I couldn't do it alone.

  Robert Maxim would help. He always helped me…because he wanted something from me.

  My love.

  A death sentence.

  A distant crackle brought my head up as Blue straightened, his hackles rising. The building shook with the force of an impact.

  Footsteps rang in the hall, and I dashed to the door. Through the small glass window I saw scrub-clad hospital workers running as smoke seeped into
the air.

  We were under attack.

  I looked back at Mulberry. His bed was on wheels. A nurse ran to the door, and I stepped back as she pushed it open. She didn't glance at me as she yelled. "Get on the other side of his bed. We're evacuating. Move!"

  I followed her orders, my hands wrapping around the cold metal of his bedside. She disconnected things, pulled plugs and threw wires across his chest. Mulberry didn't move.

  The beeping stopped.

  Because she’d unplugged the machine. He wasn't dead. He wasn't gone. We were right here.

  Blue tapped my hip, reminding me that he was there, too, and as I began to push Mulberry's bed into the hall Blue stayed by my side.

  My boots thudded on the linoleum floor, one of the wheels on Mulberry's bed squeaked, and Blue's nose tapped against my hip. My breath came even and strong despite a stinging pain in my side.

  I was calmer now, in urgent motion, than I'd been sitting by Mulberry's bedside.

  Mulberry's eyes remained closed even as his body shook with the movements of the bed.

  The nurse's mahogany brown hair, pulled into a tight ponytail, danced behind her as she ran. Her face was set into tight lines of fierce determination as she navigated the hall.

  The hospital had broken out into controlled chaos. People ran, but appeared to know what they were doing. The lights flickered, and dust fell from the ceiling as another impact shook the building. Our speed increased.

  "He's top priority," the nurse yelled, pushing us past other waiting beds.

  She opened a door and a hot, dusty wind blew in. I blinked against the grains of sand in the air. A helicopter, its blades twirling, prepared for takeoff. We pushed Mulberry to it, and with the help of another orderly, he was loaded in with two other patients.

  The nurse pulled me back, her hand tight and strong on my bicep.

  I was letting Mulberry go. Letting some strangers take him off into the air, trusting them to keep him safe because I knew that I couldn't.

  Nothing could.

  I stumbled back, Blue still tight to my side.

  The nurse left us, and Blue and I watched the helicopter lift off the roof and fly away, the thwapping of its blades fading, allowing the roar of the fires below to reach us.